


Broken Mirror

by DarkShadeless



Series: SWTOR - collection [23]
Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Legends: The Old Republic (Video Game)
Genre: (mwahahaha), AKA, Amnesia, Angst, BAD JEDI HABITS, From Sith to Cinnamon Roll, Gen, Identity Issues, Identity Porn, Mind Manipulation, Still working on this thing, Trying to figure out who the fuck you are, so this is gonna be super spoilery but I’d rather you be warned, tags updated as i go, when you don't know you need to do that in the first place, you read that right
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-03-02
Updated: 2020-03-10
Packaged: 2021-02-28 04:47:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 8
Words: 14,734
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22988128
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DarkShadeless/pseuds/DarkShadeless
Summary: As thankful as Yon is for the peace his mandatory recovery grants him, he wishes he could find his feet. Compared to many of their Order he is getting off lightly but he can’t help himself.He wishes the nightmares would stop.
Series: SWTOR - collection [23]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/906084
Comments: 90
Kudos: 37





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Notes: Making this up as I go. If something don’t fit into meta-canon I probs pulled it out of my butt. Can’t be arsed to slow down my creative streak with research right now xD Have fun.

Yon wakes to the chirping of birds. The bright sound soothes his heart, as it so often does.

Dantooine’s Jedi enclave is a hub of peace and beauty. Plant life and water is abundant and with it the Force. It infuses the building as if it were a large creature, welcoming to all who dwell within it. Birds come and go as they please.

It’s so far removed from the horrors of war he could almost forget about them. Which is, of course, exactly why the masters sent him here.

The knight sighs. Time to face another day. Dawdling is unbecoming.

His duties are not such an imposition, far from it. He can’t imagine anything he’d rather do than tend to plants and people alike. Flowers bloom under his touch, fed by little gifts of Force energy as much as sunlight. Today, it’s the aphyria that unfurls with just a little encouragement.

Their golden pollen will be ready for harvest soon, after the bees have had their share. It wouldn’t do to disturb the carefully maintained balance of their gardens, not even with medicine shortages hanging over their heads like a spectre.

The war might be far but it throws its shadows, even here.

Thinking about it makes Yon’s throat go tight. No matter how much he leans into the peace offered to him, he can’t shake the dread that hounds his steps. Force, he doesn’t even _remember_.

Sometimes he thinks it might be easier if he did.

It’s not to be. The injury that saw him barred from active duty has taken everything but the most basic knowledge of his life before. The healers say he might never regain more.

He… can’t say he minds too much, despite everything. Jedi and soldiers alike come through Dantooine, in need of medical attention and more. Healing the body is easier than mending a mind. If his own is shielding him from his experiences, as Master Alaya suggested in their last session, he is wise enough or perhaps coward enough to admit to himself it might be for the best if the memories don’t return.

What remains, the flashes that can’t be called true recollection, are enough to disturb his sleep with nightmares he can't recall upon waking.

_White. White and blue, stained in red. Dust, smoke and ashes._

“How to you feel today?” Master Alaya’s presence is kind, patient. If he can’t bring himself to answer, she will be satisfied by that.

Thankfully, Yon has conquered that stage in his recovery some time ago. He returns her concern with a small smile. “Fine, thank you.”

It is her job to ask but she never feels clinical in her professional curiosity. Today is no different. The mindhealer consults her notes, before glancing at him pensively. “Any more nightmares?”

He sighs. “A few.”

Silence falls. Alaya doesn’t hesitate so much as give him time to elaborate on his own.

Yon is tempted to leave it at that but… that isn’t why he is here. “I… I think I dreamt of the Sith again.”

“I see.” As always, Master Alaya’s brow furrows with concern when he admits to that.

It’s one of the few things his mind will spew at him, again and again. The person who did this to him. The Sith. Yon can’t even remember what he looked like properly but he gets… impressions. What he felt like, the hunger, the lust for battle.

He shudders at the thought. “Can we not talk about that?”

A childish plea. Here he is, impeding his own recovery. How will he ever let go of his anxieties if he refuses to face them?

Alaya reaches for his hand, her careful touch cool against his skin, and interrupts his spiralling thoughts. “If you aren’t ready, dwelling on those memories will do more harm than good. Let them pass you by. View them from outside, if you feel up to it. In time you will be able to speak of them and not feel their taint as you do now.”

Her cadence is so calm it’s almost hypnotic. Yon breathes easier under her instruction. The knots of emotion he tends to hold on to too tightly start to unravel. Soon, he will be able to let them go. The underlying problems remain but he is working on that, one day at a time. It’s getting better. _He_ is getting better.

Hopefully Master Alaya is right and he will conquer his shortfalls. Yon can’t quite believe it yet. Facing even the shards of memory that remain after his accident has an invisible fist closing over his heart.

Alaya pats his hand gently. “Perhaps that’s enough for today.”

“Of course, Master.”

The thing that bothers Yon the most apart from his inability to find peace within himself is that he is incapable to serve the Order in a capacity that requires a weapon. Dear Force, not that he wishes to harm anyone but sometimes he feels like he is skipping out on his duty by virtue of the many snags his mind is laying down for him. He can’t remember a single kata though his body seems to know them. Practicing open-handed is something that calms him when nothing else will but the thought of picking up a lightsaber alone makes him break out in cold sweat. Sparring is out of question.

Battle-fatigue, Master Alaya says. Over their sessions Yon has slowly been lead to the conclusion that the accident that saw him devoid of his memories was, among other things, a product of stress on his part. That needs to be kept in mind. Though he cannot recall the _why_ and _what_ , the stressors are very much still a part of him.

He just needs to be patient. No one expects him to recover overnight.

Well, no one but himself. It just- it feels so _silly_. Here he is, perfectly fit and healthy, not even his prosthetics bother him the way they do other people. Often, he forgets they aren’t his natural limbs.

But he can’t fight. He can’t _help_ , not in that way.

With a sigh, Yon reminds himself that his work is valuable. All their contributions are needed to make a harmonious, functioning whole. He needs to let his insecurities and doubts go.

The more shameful part of his emotions, the piece of him that is _glad_ he won’t have to go to war again, is not something he can admit to just yet.

Amnesia comes with a whole slew of other troubles too that Yon has to puzzle out. For one he… he hasn’t met anyone he once knew. It figures, he got sent to Dantooine for recovery, none of his unit, friends or acquaintances, would be here but…

It… it begs the question of whether or not the people he served with survived what saw him relegated to light and moderate duties indeterminably. Are they dead? Is he responsible for it?

Guilt is waiting in the wings for confirmation or denial. So far Yon hasn’t been able to ascertain either way. Master Alaya cautions him not to overburden himself but evades his inquiries. 

It bothers him but there isn’t really much he can do about it. Especially if their assignment was a covered one he may never know. He shouldn’t be so hung up about it. Attachment is not the Jedi way.

He feels so isolated. That, too, is one of these silly things he should learn to let go. He isn’t alone, he sees his patients every day and Master Alaya every other day. Their fellow Jedi are not quite as welcoming as her but that is understandable. He’s still a stranger here and something of a patient himself on top of it. It’s an awkward situation.

Sometimes Yon feels as if he is carrying an invisible bubble around with him, that doesn’t break no matter how he tries to reach out.

At least not until he meets Master Timmns.

Timmns… Timmns changes _everything_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bottom notes: I lied. I caved halfway through and researched after all. DRATS. (Not that it helped. Turns out medicinal plants are really badly covered by canon.)


	2. Chapter 2

Master Somminick Timmns comes to Dantooine the way many Jedi do: On a stretcher.

His time as a teacher to their younglings was always limited. None of them can refuse the call to arms indefinitely. The Sith breaching orbit over Tython, led to break the beating heart of the Jedi Order by none but the one who had once given him hope peace might be attainable had… it had put some things in perspective.

Had it always been a lie?

But the Wrath hadn’t made any effort at pretending to be what he wasn’t. Somminick only has to close his eyes and think back and he can still see him. Wild, merciless and unbending in so many ways… And then he’d yield on fronts Somminick would least expect it, leaving him floundering to catch up.

The greatest warrior the Empire had at its disposal. Would their defences have fallen if he hadn’t been the first to come down upon them?

Futile questions. Timmns will never know.

He hasn’t given up, still hopes for resolution, for peace, like the fool he is, even if it is farther out of their reach than ever but he has to accede to reality. The Jedi Order needs every able-bodied fighter, so to war he goes. He goes and he fights and he _kills_ , as little as he wants to do so, right up until he gets caught in the backwash of a watered-down proton-beam cannon the Imps somehow managed to install in a _troop transporter_ of all things.

Somminick should have known better. Nothing with an imperial insignia on it is ever as harmless as it looks.

He is lucky he doesn’t get vaporized on the spot. Half of the men with him are dead before they can blink. He doesn’t remember much else. Gunfire, the particular fuzziness of injuries so grave your mind refuses to comprehend them. Reinforcements came, eventually. When they attempted to move him he blacked out.

He doesn’t come to properly until he is off planet entirely and when he does it is a slow, halting process. The not-quite comforting sounds of medical equipment mix with a murmur of voices and… water. Birdsong filters in from somewhere.

Somminick blinks his eyes open blearily. The first thing he sees is the ceiling and it takes him a moment to realize that that is what it is. It’s the sandy grey of duracrete pretending to be real stone that no military base bothers to use. Too much effort. _'Where am I?'_

When he tries to rub away the ache between his brows he doesn’t get very far.

He’s trying to force his brain to consider whether he should be worried about being restrained in a place he can't identify when everything he has observed becomes irrelevant.

Someone puts a hand onto his shoulder carefully but firm. Somminick follows the sweep of sensible sleeves upwards with bleary eyes.

The healer leans over him and gives him a gentle smile. “Please don’t try to move just yet, Master. You are safe. There is nothing to be worried about.”

In that moment Somminick is certain of one thing:

_‘I’m hallucinating.’_

That’s the only damned explanation for why this man in Jedi robes would be wearing the face of the Empire’s Wrath.

* * *

The mirage doesn’t budge.

They patch up his arm in painstakingly detailed work they won’t let him see, pumping him full of drugs his system isn’t used to so he can take the experience and never, not once, does what he is seeing change.

Yon they call him, Yon of Salshian. He’s so obviously a Jedi it makes Somminick’s head hurt.

Everything about it is _wrong_.

Somminick spends more time staring at his assistant healer than is proper but he can’t even begin to care. He saw the Wrath mask-less exactly once. Absently he remembers thinking the man to be younger than he expected. He couldn’t have been much older than Jaesa, for all she called him master.

Dark hair, kept short. A slender face, high cheekbones. If he hadn’t been so pale he would have looked the part of the pure-blooded Sith. Meeting his eyes had felt like looking into pools of hellfire.

Yon’s eyes are different. They are a warm brown so dark they look black unless the light falls just right and reveals their true color. The Dark Side doesn’t cling to him. If he is pale it is the paleness of a long sickness he is just recovering from, not the touch of life-leeching corruption.

_But are these two so far removed from each other?_

Apart from minute details like these Yon and the Wrath are mirror images of each other down to the network of scar tissue that crawls over the right side of their face. They even _sound_ alike.

That is where the similarities end.

The Wrath Somminick met was a proud man. Half-broken and more than a little bent, he had carried fires of rage inside of him only a Sith can endure. His only goal was to cut his former master any way he could and he was ready to walk over the corpses of anyone who got in his way.

_Is that really true? Somminick got in his way, too._

He can’t stop thinking about that encounter, although years have passed. Especially their parting comes to him often.

Darth Ekage, lying between them, her eyes glassy. Empty. Dead.

 _“She didn’t have to die,”_ Somminick remembers saying. Another useless death, another life lost. Would it ever end?

The Wrath had stepped back from her body with a scoff. _“And you wonder why the Sith prefer death to surrender.”_

Somminick still does. He wonders. He can’t help but feel, then as now, that he is missing something.

It might be nothing. The Wrath is a known master of Dun Möch. He has felled more Jedi with words than other Sith with a blade. Somminick really should put the matter aside.

_But what if he is, what if there is something he is missing?_

One mystery at a time. For now, there is the matter of assistant healer Yon of Salshian, the young knight with the face of an unrepentant murderer that spends his days tending to the sick in the medical ward of the Jedi enclave of Dantooine.

He is nothing like the man Somminick met. He imagines that proud, defiant warrior would have sneered at the comparison alone.

“Master Timmns. Would you like some water?”

Somminick drags himself from his cottony thoughts. He has the distinct feeling this isn’t the first time his attention has been called for.

You wouldn’t know it by his caretaker’s disposition. Yon seems perfectly content to be where he is, repeating himself gently until his patient is capable of responding to him. When he sees Somminick’s attention caught a spark of true pleasure lights his smile. “Would you?”

“I’m sorry?”

The young knight’s soothing aura brushes over his own. “Water, master. Are you thirsty?”

“Oh. I-“ Actually, now that it has been pointed out to him he is parched. Has he forgotten to drink again? Force, whatever they are dosing him with is doing a number on him. “Yes, please. If it’s not too much trouble.”

The corners of Yon’s eyes crinkle as his smile deepens. His presence is such a soft light Somminick's tension washes out at the edges under its shine, no matter how he tries to hold on to anything that will keep him alert. “Of course not. I’ll be right back.”

He tracks the sweep of the healer's robe, his thoughts in disarray. ‘ _What is going on here?_ ’


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I mention a few headcanons about the Force, nature and Jedi gardeners here that I first came upon in 'On the other side' by esama which you can find here:  
> https://archiveofourown.org/works/13003122/chapters/29733783 (It's unfinished but I loved reading it anyway)
> 
> Gawd, I could gush about uses of the Force that aren't fighting and how they may be different all day but... yes. Maybe another time.

Yon isn’t unhappy on Dantooine. Not all days are bad days. The more he works on it, the more good days he has, too, days where he doesn't wake from nightmares beyond his grasp upon waking, days where he doesn't feel awkward and out of place.

The abundance of nature in their enclave helps ground him. When his duties allow he will meditate in the gardens and soak up the vibrancy of life and the peace they exude.

He breathes in the sweetness of flowers and the tangy smell of greenery until it settles right into his spirit. That's when he feels most at home.

He is deep in meditation when something small and light catches on his robes and pulls him out of his reverie.

Yon can't help but smile before he has even opened his eyes. Thankfully he manages to swallow a laugh. It won’t do to startle his visitors.

He hasn't caught the trick of ignoring the corusca finches when they make him their perch yet. They are just too cute.

Master Alaya tells him he will, eventually. In all honesty, the prospect fills Yon with a certain disappointment.

If he isn’t trying to resist the distraction as hard as he could… well. Who has to know?

Several of the tiny, jewel-bright birds are picking at his sleeves curiously. In the Force they spark with impulsive energy against the backdrop of the garden's more staid aura.

Yon slowly turns his hand with a chuckle. The closest bird, a green one with bright blue chest feathers, inspects it immediately.

“Sorry, little one. I don’t have food right now.” There might be more reasons than one why Yon is their preferred landing pad.

While her flockmate ignores that hint in favor of squeezing between Yon’s fingers to check for hidden crumbs his turmaline-red sister flutters up onto their jungle-gym's shoulder and starts grooming his hair. As always her affection tickles something fierce.

Yon can't hold in a laugh now, though he tries to keep it quiet. “Stop that! Come on!”

But it's not his squirming that makes them take flight all at once.

One wrong step, that's all. Behind him a twig breaks underfoot and the whole flock takes to the air in a flurry of wings.

Yon looks after his little friends with a twinge of abandonment in his heart.

“My apologies.”

“It's alright.” He turns to look at the newcomer who can't know where and how to tread so he won’t disturb the garden and musters a smile. That’s something many struggle with when they first come to the enclave. Yon knew Master Timmns was near before he ever got close enough to upset the birds. It's not even his presence in the Force but the way he unconsciously pulls on it. The carefully balanced natural tapestry of Force energy generated by all living things is distorted by nothing so much as a trained Force user. Instinctively they drag the energy to themselves and away from their surroundings.

Few but a gardener would notice, though. “You are up. That's good to see.”

His arm is in a cask, held immobile for the time being but fresh air will do him a world of good. If nothing else a walk might take Master Timmns’ mind off his injury for a little while.

They had to remap most of the nerve clusters in his right arm. If that procedure was successful remains yet to be seen.

It's times like these that Yon most wishes he could remember, not for himself but others. Why is he so comfortable with his own prosthetics where many Jedi will have such problems if they lose a natural limb? A lot of those who come through Dantooine injured enough for it to have come to that reject cybernetics entirely, or regret their choice after installation. He gathers it feels alien to them, to carry around a piece of machinery within themselves that has no connection to the Force.

Maybe if he knew how he got past that… but he doesn't. It's futile to dwell upon it.

Timmns makes the somewhat awkward motion of a person who forgot they were incapacitated and tries to turn an ingrained habitual gesture into a shrug. “I confess I've had my fill of the medward ceiling.”

Understandable. Yon hides a quiet smile at his distaste. He prefers the outdoors to being cooped up too and he actually has a choice in the matter. “Would you like to join me in meditation?”

“Is that what you were doing?”

The master's scepticism makes Yon breathe a laugh. “Well, that's what it started out as.”

Very obviously unconvinced Master Timmns glances at the nearby Yoruba tree, where the corusca finches have gathered enough courage to take to the lower branches. They are complaining about the intruder quite loudly.

“I'm not sure I'm welcome. Aren't those supposed to be people-shy?”

They are. Their beautiful plumage has seen their species hunted almost to extinction. Some _very_ rich individuals keep them for pets but they don’t do well in captivity. The flock that has made its home in the enclave is one of the last of its kind.

For birds, corusca finches are rather smart. They have learned to be wary of humanoid-shaped creatures.

But as with all things born from fear, or pain… Yon reaches out, palm turned up and the upset twittering takes on a curious edge as the birds hop closer to peer at it and ascertain whether he has come bearing treats after all. “You just have to be patient. They'll come to you,” He knows this, feels this, with a certainty wound through his being as thoroughly as the Force itself. An open hand, kindness offered without expectation of reward, some gentleness, that is all it takes, for people as for birds.

There's no wound that can't be healed, with time and with care. Some may need more than others, some may scar, but the one who suffered them can be helped nonetheless if you are willing to try.

* * *

He needs that certainty sometimes.

While Yon is quite content with his life in a general sense, even if he does get a bit lonely for no reason sometimes… there are days he feels as if for every good one there is a bad one. As if for every step he makes toward a full recovery, he finds himself sliding back by two.

He doesn’t realize it’s a dream, at first. He rarely does. It’s so _real_.

Smoke burns in his eyes. He must have bitten his tongue. He can taste the blood, feel the pain sparking through him when he swallows, throat dry. Force, he can’t breathe.

Hands reach for him and he knows he has to get away, he has to, _he_ **_has to_** -

Yon wakes with a gasp, struggling blindly. He overbalances, there’s a sound of pain that isn’t his own.

It draws his attention with the well-ingrained instincts of a healer but he’s too slow to re-join the land of the awake and aware. The chair he fell asleep in tips and sends him to the ground before he can recover his wits. He lands on his shoulder, hard.

The impact jars his prosthetic something fierce. Stars. It doesn’t _hurt_ precisely, not as much as his shoulder does (Oh, that’s going to bruise), but it’s such an alien feeling that it makes his stomach flip. They’ve had to rework some connectors after his accident and they have yet to fully settle. When he strains them too much they still move in ways-

Yon has to swallow at the thought alone and push through it in a concentrated effort.

Sometimes his cybernetics send his brain signals as if they are moving in ways things inside an arm shouldn’t move. Which they are not. They aren’t. They’re perfectly fine, no matter what his nerves are convinced of.

It takes him all the way until he has conquered that nauseating experience before he realizes what woke him in the first place. Yon sits up so quickly he gets a head rush.

Sure enough, he isn’t alone. Timmns is standing over him, leaning heavily against the desk of the healer attendant on duty and clutching his injured arm to his chest. “Oh, oh, I am so sorry!”

Of all things. Master Timmns has been through quite enough, the last thing he needs is to be maimed by the person who should be _helping_ him. Force, Yon should have begged off of nightshift. This is what he gets for trying too hard.

“Please, let me- "

He ushers his patient to the nearest examination pod, quite a bit more frantically than usual, heart still caught in the aftershocks of his dream and the very real consequences of his exhaustion. The first are fading fast but Yon's hands shake no less for that.

_Hands. Reaching- What was reaching for him? Who-_

A harsh shiver races through him and Yon admits to himself that he's not fit for this. He has to summon a medical droid to take the scans for him, asses just how much damage was done. How could he have been so _careless_? "I'll get you something for the pain. Just a moment."

He barely gets a step before a surprisingly steady hand takes a hold of his shoulder. Master Timms, expression tight with discomfort but eyes clear, looks up at him with a frown. The concern that brushes over Yon's shields stills him more thoroughly than the touch does. "How about you slow down a little? It’s not so bad."

Force preserve him, his own patient is trying to take care of _him_.

Yon takes a breath that’s not as calming as he would like. “Master Timmns, I really need to insist you let me examine you. You’re in a very delicate state.”

Thankfully Dee-Seven zooms into the cubicle before that becomes a point of contention. He takes the welcome excuse to avert his eyes and busy himself with the readout pad. “Dee, a level three tissue scan on the specified area please. Sudden strain may have affected the grafts.”

The spherical droid hovers closer energetically, scan pads unfolding. #Tissue scan, level three: Commencing.#

“Thank you.” Dee-Seven chirps happily but otherwise ignores him. Yon can’t say he minds. One pair of watchful eyes is enough to be unsettling when he’s already too aware of what kind of impression he is making. He chances a glance at Master Timmns, anxiety knotting his stomach. “Are you sure you don’t need anything? You came to me for a reason.”

The frown on the Mirialan master’s face hasn’t lessened. If anything, the lines it leaves on his face have grown deeper. “I thought I felt…“ He trails off, mustering Yon searchingly. After a long moment the severity of his gaze softens a little though his concern doesn’t abate. “Something woke me, a disturbance in the Force. I’m not sure what it was.”

Oh. That’s… Yon really should have begged off of his nightshift today, even if he already feels the slack he is leaving for others to pick up too keenly. Humiliation makes his cheeks burn. “I… I had a bad dream.”

A bad dream. He sounds like a _child_. Only children don’t nod off while on duty. It seems he hasn’t seen the end of sudden spells of fatigue after all.

Thank the Force the ward is mostly automated. No harm will befall their patients that the droids won’t catch. Unless there’s an unforeseen complication, of course, which is exactly why there should be at least one person on watch-

Yon struggles with a fresh wave of self-recrimination. He can beat himself up later. Or, better yet, talk the whole thing through with Master Alaya and alert her to his difficulties.

There’s a cheerful beep and Yon shunts the whole matter aside resolutely.

#Scan complete.#

“Thank you, Dee.” The graphs unfold under his hands, layer by layer. What he finds brings Yon a certain measure of relief. "Good news. There doesn't seem to be any damage." Still… “I’m afraid you’re showing signs of possible inflammation, though. Nothing immediately dangerous but it will need to be monitored.”

He scrapes his courage together and looks at his patient, doing his level best to project a semblance of professionalism. “Everything else is as it should be.” And because it is more than necessary, “I’m sorry for disturbing your rest, Master Timmns.”

Timmns takes his apology in quietly. There’s something about the way he looks at Yon that makes him want to squirm in his seat. He doesn’t but he wants to. “It’s fine.”


	4. Chapter 4

_Fine_. It’s not _fine_. Nothing about the situation Somminick has found himself in is even remotely encompassed by the word ‘fine’.

No matter how many times he replays the events of his rude awakening in his mind, they don’t change. Just like Yon’s face, his _voice_ , the hands with which he carefully guides Somminick through the slow stretches his arm requires if he is to regain a full range of motion.

If the Wrath needed a prosthetic he doesn’t know but even in full body armor his hands were almost delicate. An impossible contrast to the unnatural strength he could bring to bear. Somminick remembers them all the better for it, for how he expected them to grip his own with bruising force when his unlooked for ally helped him to his feet after their battle with Ekage had sent him to his knees.

Yon’s touch is gentle but sure. There is no hesitation in him, here, where he is in his element and focused on his task.

Somminick can’t help but compare the hold he has taken of his arm to another, just as sure and just as strong. A little less careful, perhaps.

They’re too alike.

“Could you try to clench your fist, Master Timmns?”

He follows the instruction, half of his own attention occupied with the man watching over his exercises. His grip isn’t very forceful yet but that he is able to move his fingers at all is a relieving improvement.

_For a moment there, in the darkness of the medward, he had thought he felt-_

Somminick presses down harder, until his muscles shake with the effort. He had thought he felt-

Nothing. It was nothing.

Is he seeing things? Is he imagining… Has the war finally gotten to him? He has seen people go that way. Soldiers, mostly, but Jedi too. It’s possible that he has hit his limit. Somminick is not willing to discount that completely.

Failing that, his memory might just be faulty. He met the Wrath _once_.

_He would know his presence anywhere. Anyone would._

Mismatched hands close over his wrist, firm but warm, and startle him out of his wandering thoughts. “Careful there, Master.”

Right. He isn’t supposed to overdo it. Unclenching his fingers again sends sparks of pain through Somminick’s arm and halfway through he can’t quite make them move further. Frustration flares in him, sudden and aggrieved. He breathes through it, throat clogged. His first attempt to voice the problem is unsuccessful. He can’t- the words just won’t come out.

Assistant healer Yon’s presence in the Force flutters with sympathy before it resettles into warmth and patience. He squeezes Somminick’s wrist reassuringly. Under the even pressure of his fingers massaging the tendons the uncontrollable shaking that has taken a hold of Somminick’s hand slowly subsides. “There you go. I think that’s enough for today.”

The unfamiliar voice that answers him is almost a shock. “You may well be right.”

Somminick contains a flinch, if barely. Force, he was so caught up he didn’t even notice they weren’t alone. Yon’s aura is… distracting. Soothing, certainly but distracting.

But it seems he wasn’t the only one distracted. Yon takes one look at the master healer at the entrance of their partition, arms crossed and tapping a datapad against their arm, and winces. “Master Gr’attix. I didn’t see you there.”

“We noticed.” The insectoid buzzes and Somminick is almost sure that is a reprimand. “You are late for your appointment with Master Alaya. We will finish here.”

“Of course, Master.” With a hasty bow and an even more fleeting apologetic smile, the junior healer hurries to leave under his superior’s stern eyes.

The scene almost makes Somminick chuckle but only almost. Something about it isn’t right. There’s a jittery edge to Yon’s haste that sets him ill at ease. He would put it down to the same insecurity that seems to take him every time he makes a mistake but…

He is a Jedi. He has learned to trust his intuition.

Slowly, on a timed inhale Somminick lets that feeling guide him, from the brittleness of Yon’s smile, to the way he ducks out the door. He leaves as much space between himself and the master still occupying the same as he can.

Somminick tracks his unease, he breathes out, and finds himself watching a watcher. Gr’attix is looking after his subordinate with the perfect stillness of a praying mantis. Their multifaceted eyes are cold.

He doesn't pause, keeps breathing, through the crystalizing realization of… Somminick isn’t sure of it yet, but _something isn’t right here._

How Gr’attix entire demeanour changes subtly when they turn to him only solidifies his growing certainty. Their Force impression warms from a glacial stream to a cool brook. If he wasn’t looking for it he might not even notice.

“If you will allow us, Master Timmns.”

“Of course.” His own tone is carefully light, implying a smile that doesn't reach past the surface.

The healer hums, pleased, and sets about checking his injury. For some reason they barely bother to consult the chart Yon left behind and start from the top.

Somminick doesn’t bother to correct them.

* * *

_Late_. Oh, stars. Yon can feel how badly he is still blushing. He has to be as red as a torqa root.

Master Alaya was very kind about the whole thing but… He slumps over his dinner tray with a sigh. He needs to get his act together. It’s bad enough he has been backsliding. That’s part of his recovery, he can’t help it, but there’s no excuse for sloppiness.

Or taking a personal interest in a patient.

Yon curls his hands into his hair with a muted whine. Master Alaya was _very_ interested in what had made him tardy and he couldn’t really deny what it was. Gr’attix probably told her. Even if they didn’t, what was he going to say? ‘I forgot the time?’ ‘I dropped my identi-card in the fresher and had to levitate it out of the grating?’

She barely believed that when it _actually_ happened.

No, Yon had fessed up, like he should, and boy was that humiliating. He wasn’t, technically, supposed to do Master Timmns physical. Not today, anyhow. But the chart was there and Chiku didn’t mind trading her shift and-

And he wanted to see Master Timmns again.

Master Alaya had given him a very long, very neutral look for that part of his reasoning. “ _And why is that?_ ” she asked and Yon had wished he could sink right through the floor.

The truth is there is just something about the Mirialan he can’t put his finger on. Something… something that makes his mind sit up and listen and it’s driving Yon nuts that he can’t tell what it is. He espected it to fade with time, for it to become part of the background noise of everyday life, but it didn't.

It’s not a crush (dear Force, he hopes it’s not), it’s…

Something. Master Timmns feels _real_ , even if Yon cringes at putting it that way. It’s not that other things don’t but Timmns is… the disconnect he feels so often is missing, with him. He feels… closer. Warmer. A little like coming home.

The simple truth is that Yon likes him. He likes spending time with him. It makes him feel as if something that was out of order has been set to rights.

Master Alaya had taken his clumsy explanation and hummed thoughtfully. “ _That doesn’t have to be a bad thing. Attachment is dangerous, especially for someone with your difficulties, but if the Force is guiding you in this, his presence might help you regain balance. Keep in mind that he is your patient and be conscious of your conduct._ ”

‘ _Be conscious of your conduct_.’ Stars and _void_. ‘ _She thinks it’s a crush, doesn’t she?_ ’

Yon is sorely tempted to try and smother himself in his mashed tubers. He is never going to live this down. Six months as a junior healer and here he is, on record as falling all over himself over someone he is supposed to help in their recovery.

But even as he tries to let all of that go and choke down his dinner before it gets colder than it already is the niggling feeling at the back of his mind that woke when he saw Master Timmns the first time doesn’t abate. If Yon had to put it into words, he’d be tempted to say, to ask…

‘ _Do I know you? I know you, don’t I?’_

He hadn’t confessed _that_ to Master Alaya. It’s ridiculous. If he did she would know, right? _Master Timmns_ would know and he hasn't mentioned anything. So it can’t be that.

It’s a nice thought though, a nice feeling, even if it isn’t true.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Uffff, two days of roleplaying and no updates later... my brain is mush but I had this written up so :D

Like a pebble tumbling down a slope to set off a rockslide, once Somminick mind has finally noticed them the incongruities mount. Master Gr’attix isn’t the only healer of Dantooine's enclave that is behaving strangely.

They all have one thing in common: Their attention follows Yon like a Dianoga on the hunt, veiled, barely visible but _there_ just under the surface if you know what to look for.

Yon is never alone. Not truly. Wherever he goes, someone’s eyes follow him. The refectory, the gardens, the medward, _someone_ will be there and when they don’t think they are being watched in turn they will look at him in a way that makes the hair on the back of Somminick’s neck stand on end.

Even when Yon visits for a private consultation there’s at least one drone puttering around in the corner. Somminick wonders idly how private these consultations really are.

 _That_ is what keeps him silent, more than anything. If the authority of the enclave is ready to breach all dictates of medical privilege over this…

And yet he has to hope that is the case. The alternative is that they aren’t, which means, whatever is happening here, they _don’t know_.

Somminick wouldn’t waste a thought on that possibility if the object of the web that has been drawn here wasn’t _Yon_. Yon, who always has a kind word or a gentle smile, gives a helping hand to anyone who needs it. Yon, who will share his breakfast with birds that won’t let other Jedi come within an arm’s length of them but keep trying to sneak into his quarters to nest there.

_Yon, who looks just like the Empire’s Wrath._

The picture Somminick is starting to put together has too many holes. Yon behaves _nothing_ like the Wrath. He has none of his easy confidence bordering on arrogance, none of his pride. None of his reservation. In the Force he is Light, through and through.

If it weren’t for his looks, Somminick would say he is just another Jedi, a little more sheltered than most perhaps, or more affected by the war.

Yes, if it weren’t for his face… and the way his brethren watch him. His guards, and that has to be what they are, their attention isn’t near benign enough, look at him with the calculation of a Shadow on the prowl.

Somminick hasn’t recognized any of them but that doesn’t mean that isn’t exactly what they are.

Those in the know, anyhow. There aren’t as many of them as he thought when he first started to analyse the patterns around his assistant healer. A few, well placed, that hand off their duties irregularly enough not to be obvious about it… but their fellows take their cue. Whether the enclave at large knows what is going on or not, they are all Jedi here. They must at least realize that something isn’t right, just as he did, and they react to it.

It isolates Yon, subtly but undeniably.

He’s aware of it. He must be. Somminick sees him attempt to close the careful distance the other healers and assistants keep, again and again, but every time they find a reason to step back.

It’s painful to watch. The young knight is such an open person, so obviously bent toward giving without reservation but there is no one here, no one but his patients and a flock of birds, who would take him up on that.

Why are their fellow Jedi treating him like he is a danger?

And, perhaps more importantly… is he?

* * *

“Oh, come on,” Yon mutters to himself as he rummages through his pocket. Carefully. Very, very _carefully_ , because-

His pocket cheeps in indignation.

“ _Why do you do this to me, Chip_?” He can’t quite keep his exasperation at bay.

His only saving grace is that there are no appointments he could miss and no shifts he could botch, today. It’s Zhellday, Yon’s rest day, and that is the only reason he isn’t freaking out right now. He has places to be but may arrive at his own pace.

That's a damned good thing. When his little friend decides he wants to live in his robes, the bird is almost impossible to deter. This isn’t the first time they’ve had this fight. “You know better than this!”

Chip’s sullen silence insists that he does not, in fact, care to know better. There’s a rustle of feathers against Yon’s fingertips and he _almost_ has him, he knows it- A surprisingly sharp beak nips his thumb. Yon flinches back reflexively. “Ouch! You little menace!”

That tiny, fluffy bastard. That _hurt_. Not a lot but still. Ignoring any lesson he has ever had about medical procedure Yon glowers at the cut and contemplates licking it. It _is_ tempting even if there’s a voice in the back of his head that sound suspiciously like Master Healer Votr Inuk, and it’s shrieking about wound care and sanitation.

He’s being bullied by a _bird_. What has he ever done to deserve this?

Of all his feathery little friends, Chip is the most cheeky. He knows no fear, or perhaps he just knows he has nothing to fear from Yon. Honestly, that’s his own fault, if something like that can be said to be a fault. No matter how often this tiny winged goblin makes him struggle to reclaim dominion over his clothing, he can’t seem to forget the first time he held him. Chip hadn't been nearly as cheeky, then. Far from it.

The memory is one of the first he managed to hold on to in perfect clarity, down to the flutter of an erratic heartbeat against his fingertips and the beat of panic against his sense of the Force.

_They let him go outside today. After so long cooped up under observation that is a treasure more precious than gems and gold._

_It's a beautiful day._

_Miles and miles of empty grasslands sway in a gentle breeze under a sky so clear and blue he feels as if he spreads his arms he might just up and fly away._

_That's probably the drugs talking. Yon isn't entirely sure what he is still on but his head is… fuzzy. Clearer than it was in the beginning but he can tell he's still impaired._

_Then again, the problem may not be his medication._

_He rubs at his temple lightly to banish his ever present headache. He may not remember but one thing is certain: Whatever happened, his brain got knocked around something fierce._

_He's getting better. It’s slow going but his progress is undeniable. He even got permission to have a short walk! Under observation, of course._

_His caretaker of the hour, a Falleen Yon can't remember the name of to save his life, is following him at a distance of a few steps, ever watchful. A good thing, even if the knight doesn't seem thrilled at having pulled babysitting duty. Force help him, he still keeps forgetting the littlest things randomly._ _What day it is, who the people he lives with are, what he had for breakfast... Yon wouldn't put money on the chances that he will remember the way back._

 _It's unnerving, to be unable to rely on his own mind, but there is nothing he can do to change that. He has lost so much… all he can try for now is to make new memories. Master Alaya says the more he does that, the more he should recover as his mind re-learns to hold on to everyday things like what color of socks he put on._ _(He wishes that was a joke. He’s pretty sure if he checks they’ll be white. His mind insists they should be black. Yon hasn’t seen a black pair of socks in all his (very sparse) living memory and here he is.)_

_He can only hope Master Alaya is right. It's hard to stay positive, to remain patient. Every day Yon has to face his impairment and let his frustrations and fears go in spite of how it limits him._

_But he does. He's not giving up. And for all of the pitfalls he has to conquer there are moments like this one, moments he does his level best to impress upon his recollection. Sometimes he even succeeds._

_Yon breathes in the fresh air, closes his eyes to feel the wind pull on his robes and lets himself bask in this moment-_

_Pain sparks, hard and fast, without warning and fear hot on its heels. His breath stutters in his chest. He’s running before he has fully realised neither of them is his own._

_Foolish, to stretch his senses so far and wide. In hindsight he will consider that perhaps he wasn’t ready yet to go out after all. Even a youngling in the crèche knows better than to let their shields grow so thin._

_None of that comes to mind in the moment. The here and now is misery, it is panic and thrashing and sharp twine, glittering in the sun. It **hurts** and Yon wastes no time on thinking. He **feels** and he follows, right into the man-high grass. _

_It’s not far._

_The source of the impressions is so loud to Yon’s mind he doesn’t register the twinge in his own knees, where he scrapes them on the rough ground even through his robes, as more than an afterthought. It takes him a moment to unravel himself from that enough to recognize what he has found._

_Oh, how cruel._

_Yon’s hovers there for a heartbeat, indecisively, unsure what will help and what will only hurt worse. It seems someone has decided to leave out the worst kind of trap, one that won’t kill but won’t catch without harm either. A little green bird has run afoul of the deceptively simple web and has tangled itself in it hopelessly._

_Poor thing._

_He reaches for it, slowly, as slowly as he can. The Force is rippling around the small creature and he tries to smooth it, to press **calm** upon that little mind gently enough not to harm it. _

_Yon has just managed to cup the bird in his palm when his watcher bursts out of the foliage and his concentration almost slips. They stare at each other, startled. Him on his knees, robes dirty and grass-stained and the Falleen, battle-ready, one hand firmly on his saber._

_Maybe he wasn’t the only one to let his guard down. “It’s just a bird.” Yon can’t quite muster the rueful smile he wants to, not when the tiny thing is still in so much pain, but he tries._

_"A bird." The Falleen's own mouth is pinched but after a moment's hesitation that lasts a little longer than it should he loosens his grip on his weapon. His hand stays where it is. "Don't do that again."_

_The demand hits strangely, not quite concerned enough, too much of a command. Yon... files it away with every other thing he can't quite make sense of and shuts the door on them. He... he'll think on it. Later. Maybe._

_The twine comes apart easily under careful application of the Force but that’s not enough. The bird is silent, caught in Yon's Force suggestion, his reassurance that it needn’t be afraid anymore and all but drugged. Its boneless sprawl can’t hide that its wing is… not the way it should be. Yon traces the injury with his eyes and bites his lip._

_He doesn’t think of healers or taking it back. To be honest, when he retraces what happened he’s not sure he thinks at all. He feels. He wants to **help** and he doesn’t know **how** and-_

_And the Force comes to his call. It wells up inside of him in a way it hasn’t before, up and out like water from an overflowing pot._

_Yon won't ever forget how that felt. No matter how much he has lost to amnesia, he can be grateful for this much, for the quiet wonder of this cosmic power spilling itself into his hands for the first time._

_The bird’s choppy heartbeat grows steady, it breathes easier. In a sweep of something like mercy and heartbreak its wing sets itself to rights. Even its feathers take on a glossy shine. It’s a marvel._

_With his focus slipping the animal comes back to itself. It hops to its feet clumsily, no worse for wear. First order of business it puffs up into a ball of fluff as if it is trying to shake off the remaining sparks of Force energy._

_Yon remembers laughing, quietly breathless and **whole** , as if healing it has given him something too. _

_It’s not until he has raised his hands to give it a lift to take off and watched it fly away that he realizes his arm hurts. Like a pulled muscle, right there under the shoulder, and no matter how he rubs the twinge is slow to fade._

_Master Alaya takes in his recounting of the events with a troubled frown. “It hurt you, the healing?”_

_“I think so?” Yon reaches for the phantom ache absentmindedly. It still hasn’t quite abated. He doesn’t regret what he did, whether he meant to or not but it is a little unsettling._

_His mindhealer seems to be of the same opinion. “Please refrain from further excursions into this discipline. I will see about whether we can spare someone to educate you, since you have shown an aptitude.” Before Yon can brighten too much at that prospect, his healer stills him with a stern look. “You must take care to channel these energies correctly, or you could endanger yourself and others.”_

_He swallows at how serious she sounds. “Of course, Master.”_

Yon lets the memory fade. It is one that carries some conflict but it is so _vivid_ he doesn’t think he will ever get tired of revisiting it.

He hadn’t healed like that again, sacrificing something of himself to mend someone else, but he still doesn’t regret it. How could he, when the proof of what he did is dead set on spending its every waking moment with him?

Chip had followed him home, unerringly, as if lead by a thread, and considering what he traded to heal the little bird Yon isn’t sure he didn’t. He brought his entire flock with him, into the safe haven of the enclave they hadn’t been inclined to risk trespassing into before, and Yon certainly won’t regret _that,_ even if he hasn’t known a moment’s peace on laundry day ever since.

“Chip. Chip, you _can’t come with me_.”

There is no answer but Yon didn’t expect to get one. That still leaves him with a pocket full of bird and he can’t go to the training halls with a bird in his pocket.

This is going to require some compromise.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lots and lots of gushing about lightsaber forms XD I enjoyed that more than I thought.

The first thing Master Jashka says when he sees the state of Yon’s wardrobe choices is, “Where is your robe?”

Yon can’t suppress a wince. “I… left it in the garden?” It was that or cut out the pocket and that seemed rather drastic, even if this one is _not_ the first piece of clothing he has been tempted to sacrifice upon that altar. There’s another robe just like it that has become a permanent fixture on one of the Yoruba trees and a birdhouse to boot.

Maybe he’ll get this one back at least. Yon is pretty sure it will lose its shine just as soon as Chip realizes he’s no longer wearing it. Oh, how he will sulk. Foolish bird, he should have learned that lesson by now. Yon is still a step ahead!

With an expression of aggrieved resignation the bothan drags a hand over his snout and sighs. “You have to learn to distance yourself to those animals. They are not pets.”

“I _know_.” The master gives him a _look_ for that, one that makes him feel like an unruly youngling but it is true. _Yon_ knows. He’s not so sure his little friends are aware of the same fact. If they are they do not care.

“I’m sure Master Alaya will discuss this with you. Come, we don’t have all day. First form, first stance.”

Yon follows the order he has been waiting for with barely a thought. He slides into position, as easy as he breathes, and allows everything else to fade from his mind. His body knows the routine even if his mind is lagging behind. As long as he doesn’t overthink things he can run his sequences perfectly, so he doesn’t and lets muscle memory take over where true memory fails.

It’s not quite the same empty-handed but he can do this much.

Shii-Cho is easy, the most familiar in its simplicity. Most Jedi who come through the hall barely bother with it but Master Jashka insists on including it and Yon doesn’t mind. It’s a good place to start. To perfect your basics can only elevate your advanced forms and when all else fails…

_When all else fails one needs to fall back on it anyhow. It rounds out any style, smooths the transition between stances that should be anathema._

Yon doesn’t look at his feelings on the matter too closely, lets them flow through him and out into the Force. He is at his calmest like this, at his most settled. Truly, the gardens are only his second favourite way to seek the clarity of meditation. Stillness lets him think, lets him make sense of things he is grappling with and in the end, allows him to let them go and be at peace.

There is no lag in the transition when he is in motion, no need to come to rest. Yon opens himself to the Force and finds his center without hesitation.

He works his way through patterns so ingrained he can follow them with his eyes closed and his mind is quiet. The sweeping motions of the more complex katas of Shii-Cho give way to the precision of Makashi.

Form two isn’t Yon’s best but that isn’t enough to throw him. It’s also harder to adapt to unarmed combat, seeing as it is primarily a duelling form.

That’s not as big a hurdle as one would expect.

His steps grow shorter, he retreats into the middle ring, almost the inner ring of defence, hands mimicking the quicksilver strikes and blocks Makashi favors. As with Shii-Cho, a mastery of the second form can only serve to shore up ones skills in other areas even if it isn’t practiced for its own sake.

_You never know when you will have to fight in close quarters. A lack of space gives those with greater size an edge, unless you find a way around that._

_“You are small,”_ a whisper echoes through Yon’s mind, swept away with everything else, “ _But most of your brothers and sisters are. You will learn to use that to your advantage. To be as water, as fire, as the birds in the breeze. You will learn to slide through your enemy’s grasp and their defence, to wait for the right moment, and when the time comes you will bring your power to bear.”_

Makashi is useful, especially for someone with Yon's build. It sharpens his focus, demands perfect execution and attention to minute detail, and Yon gives himself to it for long minutes, only aware enough past the moment to catch the dissonance of a misstep.

But under Master Jashka’s careful watch the katas of Makashi come to an end too, the higher order sequences almost more flourish than form. Smoke and mirrors, in their own way as over the top as the grandness of Shii-Cho’s far-reaching strikes, and it’s only fitting for them to end in a slide that gentles their harsh edges. Joy sparks in Yon’s heart and lights the Force when it, too, flows through him without taking hold.

Soresu is deceptively simple. It relies on constant motion, on building momentum and going with the flow. Really, it is probably the most underrated form, at least where a spectator’s judgement is concerned. Its greatest strength lies not only in allowing your opponent to glance off your defence but in simply not being where they strike.

Yon enjoys its motions more than most, even if it is a little too reactive to his taste. If asked though he would be hard pressed to say how much of that is owed to what he knows will come _next_ , even if he doesn’t allow the thought to distract him.

The Force mirrors his anticipation and ripples with intent. It cradles him, eases his movement and waits in the wings, but _now_ Yon draws it to himself.

The next opening sequence sees him abandoning pure form. Master Jaska clicks his tongue but the faint shadow of his disapproval flows past Yon as surely as his own reaction to it. Even if he wasn’t so at ease it might not be enough to stop him.

Ataru is a thing of _beauty_.

It comes to him in twists and turns that make his spirit _sing_ , in leaps and bounds and vicious strikes he might hesitate over if this wasn’t practice but it is. There is no need to be troubled by what any of the katas he practices could and should be used for.

Yon reaches the fourth discipline and time ceases to exist. There is only motion. Not even the burn of his muscles disturbs him here, in a state he too often struggles to reach in other kinds of meditation. The Force comes to his call, to lift him up, gentle his landings and polish his improvisations to perfection.

Sometimes Yon will think about how _good_ he must have been, before. He can feel it, here, when he practices as much of a Jedi’s battle techniques as he is able with the snares his mind lays out for him. Once, he must have spent quite some time on his mastery of lightsaber combat. He wonders what drove him to that.

Did he really want to fight? Did he want to protect others, maybe? Or was it this, the serenity, the _pleasure_ of the exercise, the sheer unaltered delight he takes from it? Because he does.

If he didn’t know better he would be tempted to say this is what he was born to do. Every breath, every shift, every heartbeat feels _right_.

It’s like dancing, body and soul caught in movement, and the Force is dancing with him.

He leaps into a somersault, turns in the air and sadly the sequence he set out to complete has almost come to an end but he doesn’t let that emotion pull him from the moment. It flutters away without tainting his focus.

On the next landing Yon shifts into a harder stop than Ataru asks for. The fourth form is much like the third in that, it doesn’t stop, it doesn’t pause, it _wants_ you to keep moving. Shien and Djem So are different.

What they don’t differ in is their application of the Force, though Yon has had a discussion or two about that with Master Jashka. Jashka insists movement and power are separate techniques to be mastered, as Ataru and Djem So are separate disciplines, perhaps only married in their aggressive potential.

Yon can’t say he agrees.

Motion is power and power is motion and once you take that to heart it is easy, so easy, to slide from the grasp of Ataru’s wild freedom, the Force singing in his mind and in his hands, and condense his momentum to a strike that is entirely form five and fit to shatter duracrete.

Master Jashka huffs quietly as the rebounding air ruffles his fur. It sounds a little fond.

Yon can’t help but smile briefly. He does like his combat instructor and it’s nice to have that returned.

Most Jedi who use form five prefer one of the two distinctive expressions of the Way of the Krayt Dragon. The opening stances are incompatible and so is the intent behind the subtly altered sequences.

Shien is less closely related to Soresu but, ironically enough, the more defensive of the two. Its opening is a high guard position, ready and waiting.

Yon himself prefers a different one that is usually employed mid combat. He shifts his weight, facing his imaginary opponent with an open palm, his offhand kept back. He could slide into attack or defence in the blink of an eye and not even the Force may know which it will be because _he_ doesn’t know.

In contrast to his chosen stance Yon curls the fingers of his leading hand to claws.

Djem So is not content to wait. Much as it may have been crafted from form three around a solid core of defensive capabilities it is one of the most aggressive techniques a Jedi may practice. It relies on its practitioner to push, to not only attack but to dominate their opponent and their battlefield.

The Jedi who employ it tend to be large, tall and strong, as the physical demands Djem So puts upon them are high. Yon… is neither tall nor large.

He ducks past a strike an attacker might take, brings his backhand forward to deflect and throws himself into the offense even the katas of form five call for. Djem So is brutal and Shien is not far behind. Yet Yon _revels_ in them, almost as much as in Ataru.

He wants to leave the ground again, break with the traditionally heavy stance and _leap_ , let the Force spin him into weightlessness only to come down at the end of his jump with the power Djem So so readily employs but he restrains the impulse. That isn’t the point of his exercise.

The Force takes his impatience, as it takes the spark of his regret over this missed opportunity and it does so again when the time comes to move on to Form six.

Yon almost breaks his stride to breathe a sigh.

He doesn’t dislike the Moderation form, the opposite in fact. There are fewer constraints, fewer set rhythms in its flow than in any other. It is a discipline that calls for imagination and intuition, for creativity, and he loves it for that. The diplomat’s form is centered on the Force, brought to bear in pushes and pulls, in kicks that never connect and still leave an impact.

The things you can do with it, if you allow yourself to use it alongside harsher, Force-enhanced strikes and a legerity not inherent in the basic katas of Niman… but he is practicing. This isn’t for pleasure.

Under Master Jashka’s critical supervision Yon restrains himself, even if it pulls him out of the perfect serenity he finds in training. He doesn’t surface fully but enough to become aware of his surroundings again. Enough to wonder why it feels as if he isn’t close to being finished, as if he hasn’t reached the end of his extended sequence though he knows he has. He will follow the last of Niman’s katas, spin out and-

_-turn into a backhand strike, as unpredictable as it is vicious. This, too, isn’t his preferred form but he has mastered it, has mastered them all and himself besides-_

Yon frowns, focus wavering. He completes the last turn, still decent if not quite perfect and lets his momentum dissipate.

It’s regrettable that his training sessions carry such unfulfilling notes when they are such a joy to attend. He has learned to recognize and accept the gaps where memory should be but that doesn’t make them any less unsettling to encounter.

‘ _Peace. Let your misgivings go._ ’ He does, lets them flow out into the Force as he pulls back from it slowly. Yon breathes deep and lets himself feel his body, the tremble of his limbs. He’s damp with sweat but he feels accomplished. He feels good.

That’s… probably not going to last long. Manfully he suppresses a cringe at the thought and opens his eyes. “I am ready.”

He isn’t. He never is.

“Good,” Master Jashka says evenly. “Then we shall make the attempt.”

Again. They’ll make the attempt _again_ , like they do every week and Yon already dreads it-

But he is a Jedi. He will not flinch from his fears.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter warnings: description of someone having a panic attack in PoV

Now, some people would claim that it is morally questionable to break into the quarters of an acquaintance to investigate them.

Those people would be right.

_That_ has never stopped a Shadow and it certainly doesn’t stop Somminick.

Yon’s lock is a joke. They should really upgrade security around here, anyone with a basic slicer’s kit could walk right in. Maybe he will drop a hint or two about that on his next visit to the quartermaster.

Then again… perhaps easy access is the point.

Somminick lingers over the keypad, longer than he should, before he pushes the door open as if he has every right to be where he is. He brushes his fingers over the doorway in passing. The nicks are faint, barely there. Just deep enough to prevent the door from sealing perfectly.

_‘Signs of forced entry and manipulation_ ,’ is filed away in Somminick’s mind as another piece to his puzzle. ‘ _Recent._ ’

Whomever is at work here could be better. Their results are shoddy at best. Curious. You would think the enclave would be more mindful. That is, if they are aware what is happening right under their noses. It seems increasingly unlikely that that is the case. Somminick doesn’t like that possibility any better now than he did when it first occurred to him.

But there will be time for contemplation later. If Yon’s pattern holds, he will be back late in the afternoon. Plenty of time but the less he wastes the better, especially since he can’t be sure who else may be watching.

_Someone_ is.

Somminick finds the first bug in the light fixture just beside the door. A decent hiding place for such a small device. He has to take the lamp apart halfway to even get to it. If he hadn’t spent the better part of his knighthood a spy, always alert to the point of paranoia, he may have walked right past. It barely leaves a trace of the users intent in the Force. Remarkable. At least in this they were thorough.

_‘So much for imagining things._ ’

Everything else could have been a misplaced hunch, a misfire of his brain. _This_ is not. Somminick turns the listening device in the air with an idle thought. This is proof. Physical. Tangible. Undeniable, and somehow he doesn’t think it will be the only thing he finds.

… it would have been less troublesome to be wrong.

‘ _What the hells are these people up to?_ ’

* * *

Yon steadies himself, physically and mentally. It's time to let his anxieties go. He pushes them out with a controlled exhale, expels them like the ballast they are. They rebuild nearly as quickly but there is nothing he can do about that, not until he has conquered the source.

Master Jashka waits for him as patient as a rock. It’s steadying that he is so calm. Yon is thankful for it every time.

The bothan's presence glances over his own, a quick, perfunctory touch that feels as experienced as neutral. “If you need another sequence, run it. This can wait.” There is no judgement in his voice.

Yon’s eyes fall to the box in Master Jashka’s hands. He swallows. It is tempting, so tempting, to run the katas once more, drink in the stability and enjoyment they offer him but… it would be stalling. Another cycle will not solve this problem and it will not put him more at ease.

“I want to try.” The certainty in his voice is greater than the one he feels, or thinks he feels at least.

Master Jashka musters him seriously for a moment. “As you wish.”

He opens the box. There is a certain respect in the way he handles it, a care that speaks of reverence and Yon can more than understand why. What is inside sings in the Force, sweet and clear.

The lightsaber hilt is as plain as the container that holds it, not personalized in any way, and the crystal at its core is perfectly balanced. Many hands have passed over it, many minds have touched it, but it has retained that equilibrium and never chosen a wielder.

A rare quality.

Those who have yet to find their own weapon, or lost it, may train with this one and it will not reject them. That is… if they can bear to touch it.

Yon breathes deep, he steels himself and reaches out. Maybe… maybe today he will conquer this.

* * *

Five listening devices, two cameras and one instance of almost accidentally activating a lockdown sequence later Somminick is quite sure he has never felt more ill at ease in his life. This is a _private residence_ , as much as Jedi have privacy and there’s not an inch of this set of rooms that isn’t under surveillance.

Does Yon know? He can’t know. Can he? Who would knowingly live like this? _Why_? He has yet to find answers to any of these questions.

Slicing Yon’s terminal, which was the straw that almost broke the eopies back as far as the security measures were concerned, was a radical choice but there’s no denying Somminick is in for a credit and you know what they say.

He hesitates over the files.

It’s a little late to turn off the screen and leave as if he was never here. He’s more than good enough to leave without a trace but…

There isn’t much he could do that wouldn’t look tame compared to what Yon is already dealing with, quite possibly without his knowledge.

Idly, Somminick wonders if his watchers have caught on yet, if they know he is here. If they are about to come down on him. Maybe they’re not paying attention to this place, with their target elsewhere, or maybe they don’t care that someone else is poking around. If they _do_... well.

He has to know. If this is not a sanctioned mission, if Yon has done nothing to deserve this and is put through it regardless… He can’t just look away. _And if is a sanctioned mission_ , the little voice he can't rid himself of whispers, _what then?_

Somminick opens the first folder. It’s easier to ask for forgiveness than permission.

There’s not much of import on Yon’s data drives. Materials for a junior healer to study their craft in more depth, pictures of flowers and birds. There are references to medical files but Somminick would have to crack the local data hub to get at them. He doesn’t much care for those anyhow.

The only data pack that catches his interest past the hooks someone else has left in this system is a densely stacked pile of vid files. A diary.

… he really has reached that point, hasn’t he.

* * *

Yon’s fingers skim metal, cool and smooth against his palm. His heart is racing. Maybe, maybe he will get farther this time, maybe he will even be able to pick it up.

But he knows better, doesn’t he?

No matter how much he tries to keep it at bay, terror reaches for his heart and _squeezes_. He presses his eyes shut. _‘No, not again, please-‘_

It swamps him, in an unstoppable tide. Fear, greater than he has ever felt outside of this, so all-encompassing he’s helpless in the face of it. He couldn’t say if his heart is still beating. Force, he can’t breathe.

Why, why this, why always this? It’s just a weapon, just a hilt, what would he be so afraid of, what-

_Between one heartbeat and the next, the abyss opens in front of him and he can’t look away._

_Horror crawls out of it, gushing forth like ichor from a wound, and it tears at Yon with claws and teeth, with screams trapped inside his head and echoing endlessly._

_No. No, no, no, no, no! NO!_

_Not this, not this, they can’t make him do this!_

_Only they **can** and they **are** and he **will** , he’s failing, failing, failing by inches and he won’t even know, he won’t even know what he has **done**. _

_‘Jaesa. Vette.’_

_The whisper of a thought almost drowns in the relentless emotion searing his mind, in the chaos it is born from, but there is such crystalized agony trapped in those words that it rings through regardless._

_‘Vette, don’t come here. Don’t come for me. Don’t, don’t, don’t, don’t, don’t-‘_

_And then he blinks and it’s gone._

Yon tears his hand away with a gasp, heart thundering in his chest. He curls in on himself, gagging on nothing, doubled over by the near-blinding surge of panic touching a lightsaber causes him, every time. He can’t _breathe_.

Someone touches his shoulders, their grip furry and warm, even if it feels far away. But he can’t- he can’t-

His stomach is cramping and he can’t convince his muscles to obey him. To just… _stop_ , to let him- he _needs to breathe-_

He feels like he’s going to die. He knows he isn’t, he knows he _shouldn’t be_ , but that doesn’t help. It doesn’t help at all.

Master Jashka, it has to be him, it’s always him, gently coaxes Yon into sitting down. His voice rumbles nonsense, soothing mush he can’t understand past the roaring of his own pulse, and he manages to wheeze just enough to force some oxygen into his lungs.

It ends in a sob.

Master Jashka’s rumbling grows a little deeper, more feeling than sound. He’s as steady in the Force as ever, a bulwark of calm. Yon is vaguely aware that his own presence is thrashing like a wounded animal. The comfort cleaves through the last bit of self-control he has. It slides from his grasp and before he knows it he's crying, ugly and wrenching, and he can't stop.

At least that means he's finally _breathing_ , in the great heaving gasps his feelings are punching out of him that are entirely beyond his control.

“Slowly, Yon. Pace yourself if you can. You are safe.”

_He's not safe. He will kill his own people. He will kill his best friend and he won’t even know her._

_‘Vette-‘_

“Don’t come,” Yon whispers on a tortured exhale, lips numb.

Master Jashka pauses in rubbing soothing circles on his back. “What was that?”

It slips his mind even as he tries to snatch it back, so thoroughly he barely remembers he said anything at all. "I-“ Yon stutters to a halt with no idea how to continue, shaking like a leaf.

When it becomes obvious he won’t answer his combat instructor resumes his attempts to assist him in calming himself with a quiet sigh. “Just breathe. All is well.”

It isn’t. It’s not. Something is wrong but he can’t remember what it was. Something… something is _wrong_.


	8. Chapter 8

It takes a while before Yon can calm down. He's unutterably grateful for Master Jashka's presence at his side, immovable as a planet’s core. His strength is a hard one, not the kind to lean against and sink into bonelessly but Yon hardly minds.

He needs something to prop himself up anyway.

"Deep breaths," Master Jaska mutters to him and he tries to follow that advice.

He's shaken, sniffling and struggling to release his tumultuous feelings into the Force but… "I'm okay."

Jaska makes a derisive sound at that claim. "We’ll see. There's no need to hurry."

He has no time to waste on whining but when someone really does need a moment, a break, some help to get back up, then he's the last person to begrudge it. Yon allows himself to relax, slowly, trusting that his combat instructor will take his weight.

That was… that was harrowing.

He didn't expect any less. Lightsabers are one of his worst and most immediate triggers. He can't touch them without having a panic attack and honestly, that's an improvement. It hasn't been so long that he could barely look at one with the expectation that it was to be _his_ , if only for training, without his heartbeat picking up and his breath coming short.

But he's getting there.

_He's failing by inches_.

And when he has, he will be able to defend himself again.

While Yon doesn't want to hurt anyone, he does want that. He can’t stand to be a burden on his fellow Jedi. He wants to help. Even a healer in the field needs to be able to do that much, to carry a weapon and protect their own life and their patients if need be.

… his instructors hope for more, for him to take up arms again in a different way. Yon is aware of that. They don't push, not much, but it's obvious.

He is hard pressed to deny them. He is… he is _very_ good. He could save so many lives if he could just get past this, if he could- if he could overcome this irrational fear and do his duty.

Going to war is a poor prize for how hard he works on his recovery but it is what it is. In a better world none of them would have to fight. Instead, as if the Empire wasn’t bad enough, it feels as if new dangers to the citizens of the Republic and the Order are crawling out of the woodwork daily.

Just a few weeks past unidentified invaders tore bloody swathes across planets the galaxy over without a care for civilians. Thankfully they haven’t come here, whoever they are, but their victims have swamped Dantooine’s enclave. There’s not a bed in their clinic left unclaimed.

Staying his hand in the face of that, choosing _not_ to fight, feels like he is betraying what he should protect.

Well… it’s not something he is choosing. It’s not a decision, not yet. Not today.

Yon sighs, heart heavy with resignation. He knows what he will pick, when it does become a choice.

Master Jashka tears him from his morose thoughts with a huff. “If you’re going to feel sorry for yourself, you can do that while you help me clean up.”

His gruffness covers a spark of goodwill, of the same urge to help that Yon knows all too well, if a bit rougher than his own.

It makes him smile. He feels a little better immediately, tension and dark thoughts beginning to bleed away into the Force. Funny, how such a small thing can do so much. Yon does try to keep that in mind, to offer his patients the same and watches so often how a touch of care can help them get their feet under them again when little else will. Somehow it takes him by surprise when someone does the same for him.

Already he can feel his presence growing lighter, like the sky at dawn with the sun chasing rain-heavy clouds away. Yon lets himself loosen his white-knuckled grip on his worries. He’s not alone. He doesn’t have to face this on his own. He has help.

The future will come when it does and it will be what it is. He has to take care of himself now. He can’t serve from an empty vessel. “Of course, master.”

“Hrmph.” Master Jashka squeezes his shoulder in passing and gets up, dusting off his knees. “Cheeky.”

Yon’s smile grows. “Me? Never.”

Bantering with the stern master over sweeping the floors helps a lot. The only shred of his experience Yon can’t quite banish is the feeling that lurks at the edge of his sense of the Force. It hangs over him in cobwebs of dread, gossamer-fine and tickly.

‘ _Danger_ ,’ it whispers to him. ‘ _Watch out._ ’

He tries not to listen too closely. It will go away in its own time.

* * *

There are dozens of files. Hundreds. One for every day.

Far too many to watch them all, in the limited time Somminick has. But he doesn’t have to. He just needs an answer. He has to lay a question to rest that has been plaguing him ever since he first opened his eyes on Dantooine.

_And what will he do if he does find it? What then?_

Braced with determination he chooses a recent file first. Unsurprisingly it opens on Yon’s face, smiling at the camera. He starts talking as soon as the recording starts, as if he can’t wait another second. _# I made some progress today… #_

There is such a quiet happiness to him, a joy that suffuses his every gesture as he retells what hurdles he has conquered in his recovery.

His _recovery_. Recovery from what?

Hard to say. It’s not something he speaks of, not in that first vid file and not in the snippets of earlier and earlier files Somminick scrolls through.

_# Chip stole my pen, that little thief, can you believe - #_

_# I lost another robe. Master Olau will be so angry with me… Maybe I can go without? #_

He seems to talk about anything that comes to mind. There’s no thread of reason or events, just… life. All the happenings big and small that make up an ordinary day. But the farther Somminick comes, the older the files are, the more obvious the traces of Yon’s sickness are.

His cheeks grow gaunt. He becomes more and more pale. Shadows grow under his eyes, faint at first, then darker and darker.

The things he recounts change too, turn more scripted, and the ease of his later entries vanishes. In its place a quiet, frantic energy clings to him, an exactness that he adheres to as if he is trying to hold on to it desperately.

_# It’s the fifth day of the seventh month. Master Gr’attix introduced me to the medward today. I think I did alright. #_

And then he starts to forget. The first time it happens is jarring. Somminick almost skips past it but something holds him back, the Force, or intuition, or how Yon’s (tremulous, fragile, so fragile) smile slips mid-recording as his eyes go alarmingly dull.

_# Chiku showed me around the refectory, so I can find it on my own. I- I wrote it all down! So no worries. They had this great pudding today, made from… from… #_

He… stops. That’s the only thing Somminick can call it. Yon trails off, stops speaking, stops _moving_ , he just… stops. For a moment Somminick thinks he has paused the vid on accident.

But he hasn’t. It’s still… it’s still running.

Five seconds, ten, fifteen. On screen Yon blinks suddenly, shakes his head and he looks so confused it breaks Somminick’s heart.

_# What was I… what was I saying? #_

Whatever happened to him very obviously impaired him mentally. As he starts to look more and more sick the forgetfulness mounts. He grows disoriented, unsure of his surroundings. Some days Yon is almost as he is now but the farther back Somminick gets the worse his state of mind becomes.

He loses track of time, of people he met and of things he did. After a while Yon starts to mix up the dates.

Because he forgets entire days.

_# It’s the seventeenth of- #_ He cuts off, frowning. _# Qui, what day is it? #_

A drone’s voice corrects him in quiet beeps. _# It is the eighteenth. #_

_# O-oh. Oh. It is? #_

He looks so _lost_.

But watching Yon deteriorate is not the worst of it. He is better now, so much better. You wouldn't know he ever struggled to remember how to layer his robes. That it took him _weeks_ to get to that point isn’t what has Somminick clenching his jaw so hard he can feel his teeth creak under the strain. He tries to stay calm, _tries_ to rationalize what he is seeing but…

There is little change over the last few files and not nearly enough to mask the truth.

_# Master Alaya said I should start a diary, to help me remember. … I still forget a lot. #_

His smile is even more brittle in the very first recording. That only serves to emphasize how very terrible he looks. He’s so pale Somminick can see the veins under his skin. His grip on the pad that he's consulting for instructions is shaky, yet Yon seems determined to do what he set out to do. Determined to get better, to recover. From… from…

_# She thinks it might help me retain memories if I think back on what I did every day, so I’ll do that. #_

He takes a fortifying breath, steels himself for this monumental task that will take all of his concentration and Somminick wants to _break_ something.

Yon looks at the camera and there is enough spark in his eyes left for the light to catch and paint them a softer shade of brown. Not gold, not even amber but it doesn’t matter. There’s no mistaking him. Not like this.

_There was never any mistaking him but he told himself-_

Somminick has to pause the file or do something he might regret. There’s no point in watching more. He has all the answer he never wanted and only one more question.

_‘What did they do to you?'_

Confronting the unthinkable is paralyzing but Somminick can’t afford to hesitate. This is bigger than he considered though he should have known better, should have _known_ \- should have _allowed himself_ to realize-

He has to get out of here. Now.

Somminick swallows his turmoil, coasting on years of carefully compartmentalizing what he can afford to feel. It tastes like bile.

Force have mercy.

Yon’s voice is echoing in his thoughts, aloof and judgemental, made all but unrecognizable by the vocal filters of his mask. Somminick’s mind distorts it further, gives it the mocking edge it deserves.

_“And you wonder why the Sith prefer death to surrender.”_

He doesn't doubt that the Wrath would have rather died than… He would have rather died. He would have never wanted to become what they made him, nevermind if it allowed him to survive, to live, even, in some semblance of peace. But he didn't get that choice, did he? Whomever did this took even that from him. The memory of his bashful apologies, of the gentle serenity he shared with Somminick in the garden, almost has him struggling against his rebelling stomach again.

Almost.

He was Nomen Karr's padawan. Whatever his master may have become, however far he may have fallen later, he was an excellent teacher. Somminick locks all thought of Yon, of who he is, of what he should be-

He locks it all away. He has to hurry.

Thankfully he cleaned up after himself as he went. Resetting the terminal is a matter of minutes and even that feels too long. He is running out of time. The certainty of that, of danger closing in, grows from a gentle hint to an undeniable warning, prickling against his senses.

Somminick breathes through instinctive anxiety and releases it without hesitation. It will not aid him. Steady hands will do more than fear speeding his heart ever could.

He sweeps from Yon’s small living room, a ghost, a shadow, and leaves not a thing out of place.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Sometimes it is the Waking](https://archiveofourown.org/works/27646402) by [DarkShadeless](https://archiveofourown.org/users/DarkShadeless/pseuds/DarkShadeless)




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